Blind Eye

20

'Bloody hell,' said Rennie, 'and I thought Steel looked bad.' Half past eight on Wednesday morning and the constable was making the first tea round of the day, carting a tray full of dirty mugs around the CID office.

Logan scowled up from his desk, and instantly regretted it. His face hurt. By the time he'd clocked in for work this morning, the whole left hand side was puffy and swollen, the bruised skin a psychedelic mixture of purple, blue and green.

'No, seriously,' Rennie collected the mug from Logan's desk and added it to the collection, 'you're like the Elephant Man on a bad day.'

'Didn't think Steel would be in this morning.'

'Oh aye. Smells like she's eaten a pickled skunk. Hungover isn't the word. Tell you, I've seen people look healthier after they've been post-mortemed.' He turned as someone slumped in through the door. 'Oops, speak of the Devil and She will appear.'

Rennie wasn't kidding — DI Steel looked dreadful. Her hair lay on top of her head like a ruptured ferret, black bags under her eyes, face a delicate shade of week-old roadkill, bringing with her a miasma of Chanel № 5, extra strong mints, and stale whisky.

Logan asked how she was feeling, but she just grunted and slouched past, making for the swear box. She picked it up off the little fridge in the corner and frowned. Shook it. Glowered. Opened it. Swore. Her voice was about two octaves lower than usual, marinated in gravel and razorblades. 'What thieving bastard…?' She turned the Quality Street tin upside down, but nothing fell out. It was empty.

Steel threw it to the ground, then kicked it the length of the CID office. 'I put forty quid in that!'

Everyone turned to stare at her.

Rennie winced. 'Maybe-'

'FORTY QUID!'

'We could-'

'WHAT'S THE POINT OF HAVING POLICE IF YOU BASTARDS JUST STEAL EVERYTHING?' She ground her eyes with the heels of her hands, then stormed off, muttering obscenities.

'Well, that was-'

But DC Rennie didn't get any further, because Steel stuck her head back round the door. 'McRae, my office, now. You,' she pointed at Rennie, 'coffee: milk, two sugars. And get me some bloody cigarettes.' Then she scowled at DS Beattie. 'And Beardy Boy, you're supposed to be a detective. Find out what thieving cock-weasel stole my swear money!'

And then she was gone.

Detective Sergeant Beattie brushed the biscuit crumbs from his beard and said, 'Well, it wasn't me.'

Logan sighed, clambered to his feet, and followed her. Up close the inspector looked even worse. Her pupils were the size of pinheads, floating in a lake of spider-veined pink. She collapsed into her office chair and ran her hands through her hair. 'Mouth feels like a badger's arse…'

'Didn't think you'd be in this morning.'

She stared at him. 'You look like shite.' Then she rummaged through her in-tray. 'Where's Rennie with my sodding fags? And where's my car?'

'I moved it last night, it's parked out back. That all you wanted? Because I've got-'

'Nice try.' The rummaging produced a small stack of colour printouts; she tossed them across the desk. 'E-fits of a bloke who's been spreading his seed all over the city. Literally. Dirty bugger wipes his spunk on handrails and door handles. Shopping centres are a particular favourite.'

'Sounds like a class act…' According to the accompanying notes, the electronic identikit pictures were put together by three different witnesses, all women, who'd only noticed something was horribly wrong after it was all over their hands. The suspect had shoulder-length curly brown hair, long face, squint teeth, sunglasses. Late thirties or early forties.

'I don't see-'

'Get those circulated to the heads of security at every major supermarket in town. And the shopping centres too. The guy's smearing bucket-loads of DNA all over the place, all we need is someone to match it to. Tell them I want called the moment this skanky tosser shows his ugly face. And chase up that lookout request on Rory Simpson, little child-molesting sod's got to be somewhere.'

'Going to have to be tomorrow. Finnie wants me-'

'Oh for God's sake, tell the frog-faced git to take a run and jump. He's-'

'We arrested Colin McLeod last night: attempted murder. He paid a visit to Harry Jordan's head with a claw hammer.'

Steel actually smiled. 'He going to be OK?'

'Probably not.'

'Good.' She coughed, grimaced, then went potholing in her desk again. 'Why have I no' got any paracetamol…?'

'Anyway, I've got to sit in on the interview, and we'll have to make a formal ID, and-'

Bang, crash. DC Rennie backed into the room with a mug of coffee in one hand, a packet of biscuits in the other, and a manila folder tucked under his arm. 'Sorry.'

Steel scowled at him. 'Oh aye, that's right: destroy the bloody place. Where's my fags?'

'Got you three Silk Cut. Had to rob them off DS Griffiths, so if he goes on the rampage you don't know anything about it, OK?'

'Gimmie, gimmie, gimmie.' She held out her hand, and Rennie dropped the cigarettes into it. She lit one, sucking the smoke down, then letting it out in a long, contented sigh. 'Oh God, that's better.'

Logan told Rennie to close the door, while he opened the window. Outside, the city shone: all the dust of a long, hot summer washed away by the overnight rain, leaving everything sparkling clean. Not so much as a puddle of vomit on the pavements. Even the early morning fog had burned away.

Rennie dumped the manila folder on the inspector's desk. 'Got the initial forensics back on the fire.'

Steel didn't even look up, just stayed slumped in her chair, smoking at the ceiling. 'What fire?'

'At the Turf 'n Track? Arson? You're SIO?'

'I am?'

Rennie poked the folder. 'You were at the scene yesterday. DS McRae put you down as Senior Investigating Officer.'

And now she did sit up. 'I was there?'

'Technically.' Logan picked up the folder and flicked through the contents. The fire brigade were sticking with their first guess: fire started by a petrol bomb thrown in through the front door. 'Nothing from fingerprints?'

The constable shook his head. 'They're backed up doing all them guns we found. Say they might get round to it tomorrow, maybe Friday.'

Steel snatched the folder from Logan and grumbled through the contents. 'I'm SIO, remember? I'll ask the bloody questions.'

'Good for you.' Logan stopped on the way to the door. 'You still want me to give you a hand tomorrow?'

'What do I need you for when I've got Defective Constable Rennie here?' She levered herself to her feet, pinged the last nub of her cigarette out of the open window, then handed the three e-fit printouts to the constable. 'Did you like Pugwash when you were a kid, Rennie? Coz you're going looking for Seaman Staines.' 'For the benefit of the tape,' said DCI Finnie, holding up a clear plastic evidence pouch, 'I am now showing Mr McLeod Exhibit A: a claw hammer. We found this in your garage, Colin. Want to tell us about it?'

Colin McLeod scowled back from the other side of the interview room table. Other than a couple of small scratches there wasn't a mark on him, not even a bruise where Logan had bounced the spade off his head.

Leaning back against the wall, watching proceedings, Logan didn't think that was exactly fair. Especially given the mess his own face was in today.

McLeod barely glanced at the contents of the evidence bag. 'It's a hammer. You use it for hammering in nails.'

'Yes, I would use it for nails, but you use it for kneecaps, don't you?'

'No comment.'

'And last night you used it on Harry Jordan's head.'

'Bollocks.'

'No, just his head.' Finnie handed Exhibit A back to DS Pirie. 'You might want to have a wee think about that one, Colin. You see,' and at this the DCI leant over the table and put on a theatrical whisper, 'we have what are known in the trade as witnesses.'

'I…' The big man shied back. 'I never touched him.'

'Three witnesses say different, Colin. Or can I call you Creepy?'

'No you fuckin' can't!' McLeod's face got even uglier. 'I want my lawyer, and I want him right now.'

'Don't be such a drama queen; you know how this works. You get a lawyer when I say so, not before.'

'I NEVER TOUCHED HIM!'

DS Pirie — silent up to this point — leant over and whispered something in Finnie's ear.

The DCI nodded. 'If you never touched him,' he said, 'then why did Forensics find traces of Harry Jordan's blood on your hammer?'

'Told you, it's not my hammer.'

'Did you?' Finnie put on a show of frowning and asking the room, 'Does anyone remember Mr McLeod saying this wasn't his hammer?'

'It's not my-'

Pirie checked his notes. 'Then why does it have your fingerprints all over it?'

'I… I didn't fuckin' kill him!'

'Oh dear,' the DCI had the kind of smile you only normally saw on grizzly bears. 'We've got forensics, we've got witnesses, and thanks to DS McRae,' he pointed over his shoulder at Logan, 'we've got a threatening phone call from the victim on your answering phone. And we all know Harry Jordan beat the crap out of that tart you're soft on. Not bad enough he's renting out the love of your life-'

A knock at the door.

'Oh for…' He glanced back, 'Get that would you, McRae?'

Logan opened the door to find an out of breath PC Karim standing in the corridor. The constable huffed and puffed for a second, then blurted out his news.

They'd found another victim with his eyes gouged out in an abandoned building. Oedipus strikes again.